


Maybe You’ll Be Lonesome Too

by Indybaggins



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Angst, Flying, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Canon Fix-It, Regret, Second Chances
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-31
Updated: 2015-06-12
Packaged: 2018-04-02 03:58:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4045030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Indybaggins/pseuds/Indybaggins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A year after the events of Zurich, Martin is happy. Or well, somewhat happy. Possibly. He’s not unhappy, because why would he be?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. (Martin)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jie_jie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jie_jie/gifts).



> This fic sprang into my brain in an Ed’s diner in London. It’s my answer to what I felt the ending got wrong, and a present for Jie_Jie’s birthday- as she knows since she was right there in that diner with me, urging me on *g* Have a great one my dear! <3
> 
> Thanks go to Cherrytide for the beta and Brit-picking through FandomAid for Nepal, and to John Finnemore for writing such a marvellous series of course *g*

 

 

 

A year. It’s been a year since he left MJN air, and Martin is happy.

Or well, somewhat happy. Possibly. He’s not _unhappy_ , because why would he be? He can’t be unhappy when he gets to fly, large, amazing planes. He has money now, and a girlfriend that’s also a princess, and an apartment that’s not at attic. And he hasn’t quite made it, no, he can’t say that he _made_ it, but he’s on his way, to… making it. 

He thinks.

The drive up to Fitton isn’t that long, but it seems like it. He’s not used to driving on the left side of the road any more. Martin’s hands feel cold on the wheel. His heart is thudding in his chest, and he doesn’t know why he would be nervous, it’s only that surprises always make him nervous. But now he’s surprising someone else, so that shouldn’t be… that bad? 

He just came from San Jose and he got his maximum hours in, so he got a layover in Heathrow, a nice hotel room for him alone, paid for by Swiss Air. But instead of going there he rented a car at the airport, so he can be at the airfield, meet GERTI and everyone inside and then get back to Heathrow later tonight. Because, well, he wants to… maybe ask them for a pint, Martin thinks. Although they just came from Amsterdam so maybe they’re tired, and maybe they don’t want to see him. Or maybe Douglas will need to smuggle something or has a date or just won’t want to have a drink with his ex-captain, because what is Martin now, maybe they were never friends, were they friends? 

Martin breathes out, slowly. 

It starts raining lightly just as he turns onto Fitton airfield. He manoeuvres his car into a parking spot, turns the engine off, and sits there, the car window getting speckled with drops of rain. He can see Herc’s car, and two spaces down, Douglas’. It’s as if he has never been gone at all, and at the same time as if it can’t be the same place as he remembers. It seems smaller, somehow. 

Martin glances to the Swiss Airways carry-on he has on the backseat. He meant to change out of his uniform, only he didn’t have time in Heathrow after finishing the final checks and walking out of there and renting a car. He could change now, either struggle with it in the car or walk in and do it in MJN’s office or the gent’s bathroom. But it’s a nice uniform, so much better than MJN’s was, and he looks good in it, Martin thinks. So he just gets out, locks the car, and quickly walks through the rain into the building. He can’t see GERTI yet, he’s a little early, so he goes into the control tower, takes the stairs. 

As always, it smells a bit like stale microwave popcorn. 

His footsteps announce his arrival before he can. “Not allowed up here.” Karl has his feet on a console, and he’s trying to aim unpopped corn kernels into a complicated rig of plastic cups. 

Martin walks closer. “Hello, Karl.”

Karl looks up, “Well look at that, captain-our-captain!” 

“Um, it’s first officer now, actually.” Martin feels a little awkward, it’s the new uniform, of course it is, it feels too... well, odd, to be here in it. But he flew from this airfield for years and he knows Karl and, “When, uh, when’s GERTI coming in?”

Karl dramatically swivels his chair, presses a couple buttons and says, “GERTI, oh creature of the friendly skies, when are you coming in?” 

There’s a slight buzz, and then Herc’s clear voice, and that’s so strange, _Herc_ , “Arrival in estimated twenty-two minutes, why?” 

“I’ve got a present for you down here!” Karl glances at him and grins, “A small ginger one.” 

Martin steps up to the comm, aware this is strange, probably, what if it’s not a nice surprise? “Hi, Herc.” 

“Martin!” Herc sounds pleased, “What are you doing in Fitton?” 

“Well, I thought we could, maybe…” 

But he’s interrupted by Douglas’ smooth voice, “Martin, _are you alright_?” 

“Yes!” Martin feels his stomach tie in knots for some reason, “Yes! I’m fine, I just thought we could…” 

“Oh wow, _Martin_ , hi!” Arthur’s there, filled with awe. “Where are you?” 

“In Fitton control tower.” Martin looks to his side, “With Karl.”

“Yup,” Karl adds. 

“Wow,” Arthur still sounds suitable impressed. “That’s just…”

“Brilliant?” Douglas proposes, dryly, but Martin thinks he can hear something happy in his voice. Something good. Although no, he’s probably just imagining that. 

“Super brilliant!” 

“Right, well, I was hoping we could maybe…” Martin takes a breath. Why does he still feel as if he is ten years old, asking for some immense favour? “Have a drink, when you’re all... back?” 

“Oh yes!” Arthur says. “I mean, I had plans to work on my crazy golf technique but I can do that later.” 

“Carolyn and I are free tonight. If you want us to come?” Herc doesn’t sound sure. 

“Of course, that’d be... yes.” Martin wants him to come, but it’s really Douglas that... 

“Hmmm,” Douglas says. “Can it be dinner, too? Arthur served us surprising instant noodles earlier.” 

“Yes, yes, I’ll um, buy.” Martin says quickly. 

“Really?” Douglas sounds intrigued. “In that case, _absolutely_.” 

Martin feels a little lightheaded hearing that, “Good, yes, that would be… great.” He glances at Karl, conscious that he’s following every word. “Okay, um, see you soon!” Karl ends the connection, throwing him a look. 

It’s not like he should invite Karl, is it? Martin glances at him. No, probably not. 

Still, he feels a bit strange. 

Maybe it was hearing Douglas again. 

When Martin’s flying, he can hear Douglas’ voice so clearly sometimes it’s as if he is sitting right next to him. Making some sarcastic joke, or a comment or other. He’s still his bumbling stumbling awful self, of course. But sometimes, in the spaces between the things that he knows he needs to do, that he has trained himself to do, and the things he actually does, it’s as if some bit of Douglas is there guiding him through. 

And that’s why, probably, it’s so hard to come back. Or... something. 

He shouldn’t have stayed away for so long, Martin knows. 

It’s just that, with the new job, and Theresa, and moving. He had been down for Christmas, of course, visiting Mum, but then visiting Douglas at Christmas seemed like it would be an intrusion, maybe, because he knew that Douglas would have his daughter with him. And Carolyn and Arthur and Herc would be celebrating as a family, and he couldn’t just walk in there. 

He _has_ seen them, every time they’re in Zurich and he’s there, too, they met up in the airport and had a drink but that had only happened three times and the last time was months ago and… 

GERTI is a dot on the radar, and becomes a small speck in the sky. Martin squints to see her pass through the clouds. She grows imperceptibly larger. 

He kissed Douglas once. 

After a long flight, he was feeling tired and slow, his eyes burning with wanting to sleep, and Douglas had stepped in too close for some reason. Martin probably was supposed to step out of the way, but instead he froze and- stupidly, horribly, horribly _stupid_ \- clumsily kissed Douglas on the lips. Martin still doesn’t know why he did it, it was just out of panic, really, because Douglas was close and that’s what he… did. 

Douglas didn’t step away, either, he just made a noise very much like, ‘hmm’. And then he’d kissed him back, only much better, _so much better_ , he’d taken his time with a good, practiced kiss, just to show that he was better at that than Martin ever would be. He was, of course, he was amazing. 

And that had been it. 

The one and only time he kissed Douglas.

Nothing else had happened, Douglas had leaned away with a small smile, and then Arthur was there, too, and they all went home and everything was normal. 

Except that sometimes Martin thought about that smile. And about how it was maybe… closer between them, after that. Douglas wasn’t quite so mean, and he’d liked that. Or if he was, he was always in on it. They were more like… a team. 

But then he met Theresa, and she was amazing, too, so great she could almost not be real actually. She went to the Duxford Air Museum with him, something no one ever did before. She didn’t laugh when he spent hours rambling about planes, which is something Douglas definitely would have done. And then there was the job that everyone said he should take, Swiss Air, and then everything had gone so fast. And it all made sense, every choice made perfect sense because he’d always wanted that, Martin thinks, he’d always wanted to be a real, paid pilot flying 737’s. That had always been the ‘grown-up Martin’, the one he’d eventually be if only he tried hard enough. 

And now he is, that, and so there’s nothing else that he needs. He doesn’t need Doug… well, anyone, at his side, helping him, he’s doing great at Swiss air. He’s doing _great_! 

And Theresa, that’s what happens, you meet someone and you try to change for them, become better. Well, maybe not _better_ , so much, but because you love them, you try… more. 

Theresa. That’s strange how the word presses hard on his chest. He never thought he’d have a... her. He never thought he’d be this person. But he is, Martin thinks. He is now.

GERTI’s circling overhead. 

Herc calls in again, asking for clearance for landing. 

Karl gives it cheerily. 

And then the final descent, Martin gets to see GERTI’s landing gear come out. Her wings waver slightly on the crosswind. The second she makes contact with the ground and her wheels meet the wet tarmac he holds his breath. That never stops being beautiful. 

They’re taxiing down the runway, slowing down, then coming to a stop. 

Martin takes the stairs down again, takes them two by two. He hurries outside, the rain fanning onto his uniform. GERTI’s door is opening in the distance, and Herc is stepping out, leading their passengers out under umbrellas. They’re red, with MJN’s logo on them. That’s new; Martin’s never seen those before. 

Herc nods at him from afar. The door is open, but no one else is coming out. 

Martin slows his steps.

GERTI’s had some work done, what, are those _new ailerons_? 

Martin steps close to the wing, reaches out and touches them. They look brand new, top of the line. He’s catching raindrops off GERTI’s side, there’s some dirt, too, he can feel the grains of earth stick to his wet fingers. He wipes them on his trousers. 

And then there’s Douglas’ voice. “Well, look at what the cat dragged in!” 

Martin looks up from GERTI. 

Douglas looks like a memory. The same grey hair, little lines around his eyes. The same smile. Martin tries to breathe but there’s a hitch in the back of his throat. “Hi. Um, hi, hello, Douglas. Nice to, I mean, yes, hi.” 

“Martin?” 

Douglas sounds concerned, still. As if he wouldn’t come back without a reason. And it wasn’t meant to go like this, Martin thinks, he was going to be _suave_ and _cool_ and _mature_. Tell them about his new life, and maybe just casually slip into the conversation that, “Theresa wants to get married.” He blurts it out. Of course. 

“Ah,” Douglas says, as if that explains it. 

Then nothing.

 

 

 

 

 


	2. (Douglas)

 

 

They’re in a hotel lounge in Dubai, a month after Martin’s surprise visit, suffering through increasingly bad karaoke. 

Herc has had a drink or two (or five, Douglas thinks privately). Arthur is fully sober but on his sixth pineapple juice so he is talking a bit faster than usual and keeps on touching his tongue, and Carolyn is sipping from something that is looking a dangerous shade of green and has a little plastic umbrella sticking from it. Worse, she’s laughing. 

The sudden amount of money has made her slightly more agreeable, and the hotels have gone up to a two- and at times, when she is feeling excessively generous- a three star rating. But she is still making them share, which means that for tonight, Douglas is stuck in a tiny twin room with Arthur. And they are all in this hotel lounge, delaying going back to their rooms of modern skyscraper ingenuity until sufficiently tired. 

Jetlag is a beautiful thing, and although he hasn’t touched a drop of alcohol, Douglas is feeling pleasantly buzzed on being awake for the last twenty-six hours. The loud neon lights are still dancing behind his eyes when he closes them, and even the grating music only adds an otherworldly quality. They’ve well outlasted most of the crowd, and the Japanese businessman currently singing ‘Put a Ring on It’ looks as if he is about to fall off the stage. And he quite clearly does not know the words. Or the dance moves, Douglas thinks, yes, he does have a teenage daughter, one picks up on these things. 

Which is when Arthur, dear lord no, wistfully and for at least the eight time this evening, says, “I could sing.” 

“No.” Carolyn says it quickly and with practised disdain. 

Herc adds, a tad slurred, “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Arthur.”

And Douglas says, a hit timed to strike at the exact level of drunkenness required, “But _Herc_ could, though.” 

He grins at Carolyn, who throws him a look laced with daggers. Which is somehow less effective seeing how Herc kisses her on the cheek with the smile of a man besotted and says, “Yes, for you, my dear.”

Carolyn, perhaps sensing a battle lost, does not protest, and Herc walks, somewhat unsteadily, to the piano. 

He speaks into the microphone, and says, “For my…” there’s a pause there that screams _wife_ , Douglas thinks, but Carolyn has banned the word, only to be uttered on punishment of death, “…For my Carolyn.” 

Herc starts on the first notes of Frank Sinatra’s Dancing Cheek to Cheek, to a scattering of confused applause. 

Carolyn looks somewhere between homicidal and vaguely touched, which must mean she’s had enough to drink herself, Douglas thinks. Arthur slips down the table until he’s lying with his head in the crook of his arm. His eyes are still open, but they’re glassy. 

“I don’t regret it. Marrying him.” Carolyn announces it so generally that Douglas feels the urge to look around at who might be listening. 

He’d thought so, Herc is a decent man as far as he can see, but considering Carolyn, this is wildly sentimental. “Were you _planning_ to regret it?” 

“Ah well, there’s always room for disaster.” Carolyn says philosophically. “I’d be a fool not to expect it.” 

She takes a sip from her poison-coloured drink, and glances at him. “Would you do it again?”

“Marry?” Douglas thinks about it, somewhat surprised that she’s asking. “If the right one comes along, why not, fourth time’s the charm and all that.” He doesn’t quite believe it himself though, and it probably shows because Carolyn throws him a doubtful look. There’s no more right ones. He’s run out. 

No one wants an old, washed-up pilot. 

“ _Martin_ is getting married.” Carolyn says it shrewdly, and not for the first time Douglas wonders what she knows, exactly. Or what she suspects. 

Oh, he is willing to admit that perhaps he was in love with Martin, around the time he left. 

He looks away. “First marriages are for the young and the _terribly_ naïve.” 

Which made it all the better that Martin did leave, really. Those things never last outside of flying, outside of long layovers and something quick and fumbled in the flight deck, Douglas has seen enough to know that. That’s where it belongs. 

Carolyn hums in agreement. 

Martin’s visit has been playing on his mind, though. 

He seemed... miserable. And for Martin, that’s saying a lot. Douglas has seen Martin bruised and battered, swollen and scared, nervous and flustered and trying to pretend he’s in control. He’s never seen him this plainly _sad_. 

He doesn’t know why.

Oh, in his new Swiss Air uniform he almost looked like a real pilot. Even put on some weight, some of his scrawniness faded with adulthood. He should be feeling wonderful, proud of himself. He’s got a great career ahead of him, Douglas thinks. A great life. 

Herc finishes the song. 

Carolyn, her drink forgotten in her hand, a flush on her cheeks, gets up as he comes back. “Come on, Sinatra, let’s get to bed.” She looks at them, “You’re going soon?”

Douglas looks at Arthur, “I’ll wake him up.”

He watches Carolyn and Herc leave, and catches the moment where he takes her hand. Ah, _amore_. 

Arthur, showing he’s not as close to a complete coma as Douglas thought he was, says, “Will you sing something, skip?”

Douglas eyes the piano. There’s almost no one left in the bar. “Oh, why not.”

He gets up, settles behind it, and thinks. He knows a whole catalogue of songs, naturally, but between the late hour and the jetlag he won’t do anything too taxing. He starts, fingers certain on the piano, voice slightly gravelly with fatigue, “See the pyramids along the Nile…” 

It’s always been a favourite, sappily romantic, just a touch of adventure in there, great for reminding the ladies of what he does for a living. 

Not that there are any ladies present. Or if there were, that he would want them. Even the small group of thoroughly smashed Japanese men have stopped paying attention. 

“Fly the ocean in a silver plane...” 

Douglas’ thoughts drift back to Martin again. 

MJN has been different without him. Oh, it’s still preferable over any other job, certainly, but Herc is a pompous know-it-all, and he’s just not nearly as much fun to wind up. Or to play games with. Granted, he’s much better at them than Martin ever was, but it’s not the same. 

“I’ll be so alone without you...”

His house is too big and empty without Helena. Douglas has thought about moving to an apartment, something cheaper, but that would be like facing retirement, something he’s not willing to do yet, thank you very much. The sky needs him for a couple year longer. And if he’s honest, he doesn’t know what he’d do if he wasn’t a pilot. He could be successful in something else, but maybe some of Martin’s wide-eyed love of flying eventually had rubbed off on him a bit, because he wouldn’t trade it easily. The freedom. The adventure. 

“...and maybe you’ll be lonesome too.”

Douglas has to scrape his throat, for some reason, too bad he doesn’t drink, otherwise he could blame it on that, at least. Now it’s just tiredness. And all right, a good helping of self-pity. 

“Just remember, ‘till you’re home again...” 

Douglas imagines the wedding invitation coming soon. And after that the yearly Christmas cards, with a picture of Martin in a reindeer sweater, holding Theresa. And maybe two or three curly-haired children by their feet, playing with toy airplanes. 

There’s nothing he can do against such a saccharine idea of happiness. 

“...you belong to me.” 

He plays the last notes of the song, and gets up. 

The bartender looks like he would very much like to close up, so Douglas collects Arthur, “Come on, time for bed, we’re flying again in less than six hours.” 

Martin would have made them go to sleep exactly at the eight hour mark, Douglas is aware. If Martin would have been here, he would have spent the whole evening trying to get him onto that stage, too. Bets, bribes. It would have been epic. 

Arthur doesn’t argue.

In the elevator, up in a glass monstrosity all the way to the twenty-fourth floor, Arthur says, “I miss him too, you know.”

Douglas looks at the floor speeding up beneath his feet and pretends ignorance. “Who?” 

“Martin.” 

Arthur says it so earnestly that Douglas suppresses the urge to say something scathing, and instead just hums. 

Arthur will have forgotten about it in the morning. 

It doesn’t matter.

 

 

 

 

 


	3. (Martin)

 

 

Martin’s in Zurich airport. _His_ airport, now, although it still feels too big, too... shiny, to have anything to do with him. The floors are always polished perfectly. There’s modern art all over. 

It’s his day off, actually. 

Martin’s clutching a cup of tea, breathing through his mouth. He has a cold, had one for a while, with a pounding headache pressing on his sinuses. 

There’s a Boeing 724 taking off, flying into the mild crosswind. 

It’s calming, to watch the planes. The order of it, endless lines of planes taking off and coming back, journeys beginning and ending. 

Martin sips his tea. He’s been sipping the same cup for over an hour, tea is expensive in Zurich. Everything is. 

He gets paid well enough to buy things like that now, but he doesn’t often. He’s not _rich_ , still. But he can pay for food, buy everything he needs, and have enough left for rent. So flying for Swiss air is more than he ever thought he’d have. 

It’s a respectable company, too. They actually treat one another as valued colleagues, it goes by the book. And if every flight ends up being kind of the same, well, then that’s how air travel is meant to be. Punctual. Routine. Martin likes that, by the book. He always has, he’s that kind of person. Never does anything unexpected. 

Except today, maybe. He walks to the gate of the flight he’s been eyeing on the screens for the last hour. 

He’s already past security. He doesn’t have to fly until tomorrow afternoon, to Phuket, so that gives him a whole twenty-four hours, and he has privileges to fly along with Swiss Airlines flights for free as long as they’re short distance. 

He missed a Birling day. 

He’s missed so much. And not just that, he’s been miss… missing… well. 

Martin shows his credentials, asks about a jump seat. Then boards the plane. It’s a quiet flight, afternoon out of Zurich, mainly business men and women, some families. The staff give him an entire row to himself in the back. He sits back, closes his belt with trembling fingers. Uses napkins from the drinks trolley to blow his nose. He has chills, too. His head is thrumming dully. Maybe it’s more than just a cold. 

He missed a Peruvian carjacking, Carolyn said, her eyes lighting up as she told the story. None of them realised was a carjacking until the driver pulled a gun. Douglas talked him down, of course. 

They’re taxiing down the runway. It takes an hour and 28 minutes to fly from Zurich to Heathrow. 

Martin closes his eyes because they’re burning, but he doesn’t sleep. 

He missed a biologist bringing live specimens onto GERTI. Among them a collection of butterflies that Arthur perhaps-not-entirely-accidentally set free once he learned what would become of them. So they’re still not up to otters, but Douglas informed him that over 2000 butterflies most certainly fit in the plane. And look beautiful when sitting on the cockpit buttons. 

Somewhat less beautiful when Arthur tried to _vacuum_ them to catch them again. 

Martin’s back at the car rental desk before he really thinks about it. Flying is always comforting and airports are mostly the same everywhere but then walking out to a car he realises that he has no idea what he’s doing. It’s not crazy. Is it? 

Visiting friends on a day off is not crazy. 

Not even when you have to take a plane to do it, because he’s a pilot, so that’s fine. Not even if they, well, he doesn’t know you’re coming, exactly. 

Not even if they’re maybe not friends, because Martin is even less sure now, after seeing Douglas that last time. They’re something warm and good like friends but not, not really, there’s something else, and that’s... that’s maybe why... It _is_ , it definitely _is_ crazy, Martin thinks, he can just return the car and go back on the next flight to Zurich. Or maybe get a hotel, but no, expensive, just go straight back, that happens, say he changed his mind. 

He starts driving.

Martin remembers his time flying with MJN air as some dream now, some strange phase of himself that he’s not anymore. All he ever wanted was someone to look at him and see a pilot. A real pilot. Douglas said to fake it, the feeling of being in control, and he has, he has been faking it every single day.

He barely sees the road, his head is throbbing now. 

But with the maybe-getting-married, everything had seemed bigger, all of a sudden. Different. 

And it didn’t… Theresa didn’t... 

Martin takes a painkiller, his last one. His muscles are sore as well, maybe it’s the flu, he thinks. That’ll be annoying flying to Phuket, but he’s flown feeling much worse in GERTI, he never missed a day of work because he was ill, he never would, he never could. 

He’d always rather have been flying than stuck in his little attic room, anyway. 

He remembers Douglas making fun of him and at the same time dimming the lights and GERTI’s alarms for him so he could nap. Arthur making him ill-conceived hot toddies out of low-quality whiskey and fruit-flavoured Mentos. Martin had the flu for a whole week once before Carolyn drove him to a doctor, complaining the whole way. 

The thought makes Martin smile, and then cough, his lungs contracting hotly. 

He coughs hard enough there are tears in the corners of his eyes, then takes a sip of overpriced water from Heathrow airport to cool the hot scratching in his throat. 

He knows that you’re supposed to give up things for the person you care for, that that’s what you do. He knows that. That you have to change yourself and try to be different and better, again and again every day so much it hurts. And he did, for Theresa, he tried but he was flying too much, didn’t care for her enough or too much, he doesn’t know only knows he tried but he couldn’t… couldn’t get it right. 

Martin makes it to Douglas’ street. Douglas’ _house_. He parks, sits in his car for a couple minutes. 

He looks in the mirror, a little surprised by his pale face and bright red nostrils. He feels a bit woozy. Really, he knows that no one can ever really... He’s nothing special, or even nothing not-special. He’s just nothing. 

Still, he gets out and walks to the door with shaking knees. He rings the doorbell. Douglas might be flying, or just somewhere else, or… and this is crazy, and stupid, and people don’t do this. 

Martin waits on the doorstep, turns around awkwardly. 

No one answers. 

He goes to sit in the car again, after a minute. Thinks about calling Arthur and asking where they are, or Karl, or maybe visiting Mum now he’s here. But his eyelids feel so heavy, so he closes them, just for a minute. He drifts into a vague, confused doze, leaning against the window. Wakes up several times with chills shaking him. Everything hurts- breathing mainly. The car windows are fogged up, condensation rolling down them in long stripes. 

Douglas doesn’t come home. 

It’s for the best, Martin knows. 

He drives back to Heathrow, his head feeling as if it’s filled with rocks, his hands blurry and distant on the wheel. There’s a sharp, angry cough pressing on his chest.

Martin takes a flight to Zurich again, goes home for a quick shower and some more painkillers, then flies to Phuket. 

Then Moscow. Then Beijing, and when they’re back in Zurich one of the cabin crew gives him a ride to the hospital, only he doesn’t find out about that until later because he passed out on the way. Walking pneumonia. 

It’s fine, really. 

He’s fine.

 

 

 

 

 


	4. (Douglas)

 

 

Douglas is speed-walking through Barcelona airport. 

They’ve landed GERTI in Terminal One because the client requested it, so they’re not stuck between Ryanair and Wizz Air in some crappy add-on for once and isn’t _that_ extra-fancy. 

Douglas barely glances at the airport stores, duty free, they’re much the same everywhere and he has places to not-be, people to outmanoeuvre. 

The downside to Herc and Carolyn’s frankly appalling marital delight is that he ends up babysitting Arthur more often than not now. Which isn’t that big of a problem, really, but after being stuck in a cabin with the three of them for the last twelve hours all he wants is some sweet silence. Hence the hurrying. 

His quick, ‘see you later,’ to Carolyn means that she is, in fact, entirely aware of his plan. Douglas glances behind him. It seems that she decided to be magnanimous and distract Arthur for a moment or two, though; no stewards are currently in chase. Douglas slows his step. 

He’s going to a staff courtyard in the middle of the airport he remembers from his Air England days.

Of course, there are glorious restaurants in Barcelona itself that he would love to take a little detour to. Tapas, meats and cheeses topped off with olives, _patatas bravas_ , a red wine, maybe sangria (a man is allowed to fantasise, even if said man does not drink). But Carolyn’s schedule is strict, two hours here, then back to Fitton. 

So despite the regrettable lack of tapas, Douglas intends to make full use of the break. Arrive back at GERTI with perhaps a comfortable minute to spare, and enjoy the mild sunshine in the meantime. The courtyard is a bit of a secret, he showed it to Martin once when they were here a year or three ago, Arthur as well but he will have forgotten by now. 

Douglas checks one last time that there’s no one behind him, abruptly changes direction and slips through a corridor and then a glass door, into the open space. He quickly scans his surroundings, some tired-looking stewardesses on their phones, a couple of airport staff on their smoke breaks. No Arthurs in sight. Good enough. 

He’s walking towards an empty, decent-looking seat in the sunshine, entirely planning on making himself comfortable and not moving for an hour or two, when his eye catches it. 

A pilot sitting tucked away in a corner. Still wearing his hat. The sun glinting off a ginger curl underneath. Studiously reading a book, or no, is that _a flight manual_ , Douglas grins broadly and walks up, hardly believing the coincidence. “Martin?!”

Martin glances up, and his mouth opens a little in astonished surprise. “Douglas! What…” He looks around, as if expecting to see GERTI right there behind him, “How, I mean, why, I mean…” he trails off. 

Douglas can feel an unexpected warmth filling his chest. It’s been months since he’s seen Martin in Fitton. He sinks down next to him, and admits, “I was trying to find some peace and quiet, but I’m sure we can go track down the three stooges somewhere in the shopping area if you’re interested. I believe there were shrewd plans being made of buying a talking _parrot_.” 

Martin’s looking at him as if he can’t possibly be real. On second glance, he looks pale, as well. A good bit thinner than he was last time, dark circles under his eyes. Douglas frowns, and after a second more of Martin’s stunned silence, asks, “Are you quite alright?” 

“Yes!” Martin’s voice catches on the word, then says, “Yes, yes, just had a… cold, well, pneumonia actually, but I’m fine now, I’m fine.” 

“Pneumonia? Martin!” Douglas eyes him. He does look horrible. 

To be honest, Douglas had been expecting a wedding invitation weeks ago, too. He wasn’t _quite_ sure that he’d be invited, but it did seem like a distinct possibility, which made him think that... “Play havoc with the wedding planning, did it?”

“Um. We, ah,” Martin looks at the floor, “We broke up, actually.” 

“Oh.” It’s not entirely unexpected, but Douglas had thought that they might make it a year or two more. Still. “My condolences.” 

He’s somewhat surprised to find he means it, too, he did wish Martin his happiness. The two-point-five children under the Christmas tree. 

“Well, I could offer you my patented _more fish in the sea_ speech, but how about a drink during? There must be a bar around here somewhere.” 

“I’m flying soon.” Martin says it automatically but he’s already closing his manual.

Douglas wants to waggle his eyebrows, imply drinking anyway, but Marin looks miserable enough that he doesn’t want to antagonise him. “Then a wild soft drink it will be.” 

Douglas leads him to the first faux-sports bar they run into, a little distracted by watching Martin walk next to him. It’s been so long that it seems like he’s forgotten some of the details of Martin. Like his downturned shoulders, making him seem even smaller than he really is. Douglas wishes that he could actually take him out. Or just anything more than an hour or two in an airport. “Come to Fitton, we’ll do a bar hopping night. You can get smashingly drunk, you know, take the classic approach of drowning your sorrows.”

Martin looks at him uncertainly. “With you?”

Douglas’ not sure but that sounded as if he wanted it. “Sure, we’ll invite Arthur and Carolyn, even Herc if you want. You know, old times.” 

Martin nods, “Yes, that’d be… fun.” 

It seems odd, as if he’d almost rather have him alone. Douglas feels a little charmed by that. He should probably call the others right now as well, he knows, they’d love to see Martin and catch up. But Martin hasn’t said anything to that effect, so he doesn’t. 

They sit down. Douglas orders a Coke, extra cold with a slice of lemon, Martin mumbles, “The same,” and Douglas looks at him and says, “Now, young Padawan, tell me your troubles.” 

A very small smile flickers over Martin’s face, and then it fades again. “It... I’m fine.”

“Martin... I can tell you are lying, I can _always_ tell you are lying, as Arthur would say, it’s _the law_.” 

Martin smiles again at that, then says, “It’s not… it was stupid, I mean, I’m me, I’m never going to…” Martin’s eyes catch his oddly, “Find someone again.”

Ah, so the ‘fish in the sea’ speech is required after all. Douglas shrugs. “If by _someone_ you mean a princess of a small sovereign nation who is seduced by piloting planes then I would say your chances are quite slim, yes.” 

Martin is looking down at his Coke.

“But if you, of course, perhaps lower your standards a bit, then certainly you will find someone else.” 

Martin glances up. “You think so.”

“Of course!” Douglas doesn’t have to think about it. “Martin, you’re a pilot at _Swiss Air_ , the world is quite literally at your feet! Women will flock towards you if you let them.” 

Martin laughs uncomfortably, but at least he’s laughing, so Douglas goes on, “Stewardesses, pilots, ground crew, passengers, other people in airports, patrons in bars, the odd janitor if you are so inclined.” 

Martin’s eyes linger on his face for a second. He seems to want to take a breath to speak, then doesn’t, looks away. 

Douglas has an idea why, of course, so he says, cautiously, “The same goes if you would prefer a target of a more male persuasion, of course, I believe the rules of engagement are largely similar, stewards are even _famously_ known to go that way after all.” 

Martin’s working his way up to a faint blush so yes, right it is. “Um. I…”

Martin did kiss him, that once. Douglas’ sure it was an accident, or maybe curiosity, Martin never seemed to want to go anywhere with it and he’d accepted that, it seemed best not to anyway, but still... He’s rather more invested in having this conversation than he should be, he’s aware.

“You… have?” Martin asks, nervously inquiring. 

“Oh yes, once or twice.” Douglas says it easily. Not that it _was_ easy, he’s gone to rather great pains to never admit that out loud to himself, several wives and co-pilots throughout the years, “I did live through the seventies.” Not that that’s really when he… Well, he might have. But mainly women, then. It’s been the two thousands that have seen him visit the occasional _bar_. 

Martin looks away. Nods, swallows, than then, his voice high and nervous, very obviously changes the subject, “So, um, where have you been flying?”

Douglas feels an odd sense of disappointment. Well. That was that then. He’s an old man, Martin’s at the start of his career, he’s his _friend_ , what was he thinking, anyway. Trying to suggest... it’s sad, that’s what it is. 

But at least Martin seems eager to hear him talk, so Douglas tells him about the latest hijinks without alluding to the fact that they would have been ten times better with Martin sitting next to him. 

Martin smiles and frowns and then laughs again, his face more expressive the less nervous he gets. It’s flattering, actually, the way Martin always hangs on his every word. Martin’s freckles stand out on his still-pale, sunken cheeks. Martin’s shirt is a bit too big on him, and when he moves and his jacket shifts it reveals a small sliver of skin. 

Douglas tries to make him laugh, again and again.

It’s so addictive that Douglas is genuinely sorry when Martin glances at his watch, widens his eyes and says, “Oh no, I have to go!” He jumps up, grabs his flight manual and bag, checks he has them, double and triple-checks various forms and titbits. 

Douglas has seen Martin do that exact same dance hundreds of times. He smiles lightly at the memory. “Showing up fashionably late just means you’re becoming a _real_ pilot.” But he gets up as well. There’s no use in stalling him, Douglas knows, Martin’s sense of duty is unwavering, and he should find MJN after this anyway. 

He expects Martin to make a quick break for it now, possibly even run away squeaking in his shiny loafers, but Martin stops outside of the bar, hesitates, and says, “Wish I didn’t have to go yet.” 

Douglas mock-frowns, knows his voice sounds altogether too affectionate though, and says, “You wish you _didn’t_ have to go and fly a plane? Who are you and what have you done to Martin?” 

“Oh no, I do, I mean, it’s a 737 and we’re going to Brussels and I haven’t landed there yet, but…” Martin’s eyes travel over him, seem disinclined to let him go. 

Douglas can’t help basking in the feeling, any hesitation at all when faced with the sheer excitement of flying is a heavy-duty compliment coming from Martin. “Come to Fitton. Visit. You don’t have to stay away, Martin.” Does he even have friends in Zurich? Is he all alone? 

“No.” Martin swallows. “I will. Douglas.” 

Douglas waits for the rest; Martin is obviously torn between running towards the plane he needs to fly right this second, and something else. “But?” 

“I, ah…” Martin wavers. Then takes a determined step closer. 

Douglas wonders if Martin is going to try and hug him. It’s not exactly their habit, but he’s not opposed to the idea of feeling Martin’s body next to his. Of getting to wrap his arms around him. Not at all. 

But he can see a blush spread over Martin’s cheeks as he stubbornly looks at him. And _looks at him_. Douglas finds himself looking back at Martin’s flushed face with something like unease. It seems rather hard to believe, that Martin would honestly... 

Douglas’ nose bumps Martin’s hat before Martin tilts his face towards him. 

…want to kiss him. 

But it clearly _is_ meant to be a kiss, Martin makes a high, _needy_ sound, and kisses him as if he’s been starving, all tongue and sighs. Of course he does. 

Douglas even feels a little hazy himself, realising it’s Martin, _Martin_ , in his arms. 

Martin’s trembling grip, Martin’s mouth kissing him as if he needs it, so he lets him, follows his lead and his lips and tongue and tries to put something in it that he can’t say.

When Martin lets go he’s, god, _crying_ , so Douglas guides his face to his shoulder and holds him. In the middle of Barcelona airport, with tourists with wheeled carry-ons manoeuvring around them. 

Martin is whispering in-between warm, wet breaths into his jacket, “Sorry,” and “I didn’t...” and “I missed you, Douglas, I miss… you.”

Douglas swallows. Embarrassingly, can feel his eyes stinging as well. He closes them, blinks harshly, and lets a hand rub over Martin’s back in a comforting back and forth. They fit, like this. 

He leans back enough to look at him, and says, “It is, of course, rather flattering to be missed.”

That draws a watery smile from Martin’s lips. 

Douglas wants to never let go. But he looks at Martin’s red, patchy face, and says, oh, he’s sorry for that, “You have to go, Martin, your plane.” 

Marin sucks in a breath, feels for his bag, his hat, his ID, his bag again, then looks at him. “I have to.” 

Douglas nods, “Yes, you do.” 

Douglas’ not sure what exactly Martin would want to hear as a goodbye. There’s not much of a follow-up to this, is there, but on instinct he pulls Martin in and presses a quick kiss to his mouth. It makes Martin startle, then smile. 

Douglas says, “Go.”

Martin’s smiling still, a brittle, heartbreaking thing, and then he starts walking. 

Then speeds up. Looks around while he’s jogging through people, back at him, nearly bumps into a potted tree, and then runs on, holding onto his hat. 

Douglas stays standing there, tourists shuffling around him, for a couple minutes before shaking himself out of it. He’s not entirely sure what just happened. It’s a stupid idea, Martin and him, he’s too old, for one thing. But the thought makes something warm rush through his chest anyway. 

He’s damn well going to make sure that he sees Martin again soon and make sure he’s alright. 

Or call him, if it’s too impractical. No matter whether it’s to do this again, or… most likely not, Douglas thinks. There is no way he could actually have some sort of relationship with Martin, there is no reason to think that at all. 

But he was smiling, Douglas remembers. Martin was smiling. 

That’s all that matters, for now.

 

 

 

 

 


	5. (Martin)

 

 

It’s been eighteen months since he left MJN air. A year-and-a-half.

And Martin is happy.

Or well, not completely, probably, because who ever is? But he’s close to happy. More so than before, he’s really, quite, oh well, perfect doesn’t exist, there aren’t _perfect_ happy endings, but there are things that are really, really good. 

Things he never knew were great until he, maybe, lost them. And then he realised they were still there. Waiting right there, and that they want him back. That they all really _want him back_. 

Martin boards his flight from Zurich to Heathrow, and nods at the pilots. He has his Swiss Air carry-on, and a week’s worth of clothes. 

He figured out that if he stacks his flights just right and then takes the end of each month off, he has anywhere between six and nine days in a row free per month. 

It’s made him popular, actually, he spent the last few weeks willing to fly when other pilot’s kids are ill, or they have a wedding anniversary, or when no one wants that horrible night flight to New Zealand. Half a dozen pilots owe him a favour already. 

Carolyn was glad to hear him when he called, too. She protested only a little, said, “Martin, you already have a fulltime job flying planes, you can’t possibly suggest that on your days off you want to _fly more planes_!”

But he does. It’s all he ever wanted to do. 

And Carolyn could use a relief pilot, she wasn’t hard to convince. It’s a brilliant plan, Martin thinks. 

He goes to the car rental office, gets the cheapest car so he can keep it for the days he’s gone. Really, he can afford it now. Well, just about. He had half-expected to fly for nothing again, but Carolyn insisted on paying him just the same as she would any other relief pilot. So he’s actually earning money, doing this, going to Fitton. 

Douglas knows he’s coming, too. Martin’s going to be staying with him. In his house. And that’s great, that’s exciting, that’s, well a little terrifying, maybe, Martin thinks. Douglas has called, in the last month. Often. Startling the hell out of Martin that first time, right after he’d landed in Brussels and he could do nothing but stammer back at him, still thinking about um, kissing him. But it’s been… good. Douglas’ voice is great on the phone. Martin only has to close his eyes and he can imagine he’s in the cockpit with Douglas next to him. He can feel a blush threaten his cheeks whenever he thinks about it.

But now he won’t have to imagine. 

Martin texts, _“I just got a car, on my way!”_

And Douglas replies, quickly, _“We’ll be at the airfield already, take-off around 3pm, ready for this?”_

Martin smiles, and texts before driving off the parking lot. _“Absolutely!”_

He keeps on smiling all through the drive. He can’t help it. The weather wavers between some spots of reluctant sunshine and a thick cloud cover, and Martin thinks about flying through that, soon. Douglas says GERTI handles much better now the weight of the gold is gone and replaced by normal copper wiring, so that’ll be interesting. It’ll be different to fly her than the planes he’s used to now, of course, and he’ll be in the co-pilot seat so it’ll all be different but nearly the same, Martin thinks. Plus, things don’t have to stay exactly the same to be good. 

He’s choosing this. 

Martin can feel his heart skip a little as he approaches Fitton airfield and he spots GERTI standing on the ground near the hangars in the distance. 

He drives onto the parking lot, and parks in the empty space between Douglas’ car and Arthur’s.

He almost worries about the flight plan out of habit, but of course Douglas will have made that now. Martin gets out of his car, closes it behind him, and walks into the building. He’s wearing his Swiss Air uniform, still, he just removed the badge with their logo, he assumed that would be good enough for Carolyn. 

Martin passes MJN’s office, he sticks his head in but there’s no one there, so they must be on GERTI already. 

He checks his watch. No, it’s fine, he’s on time. 

Still he walks quickly to where he saw GERTI standing. He can’t help but feel excited seeing her, the new ailerons are great to look at, he wonders how they’ll hold up in the air in terms of manoeuvrability. He hasn’t been looking forward to flying a plane this much in a long time. 

Martin can see movement thought one of the little windows, so he, feeling a little strange, knocks on the door. 

And Arthur nearly throws it in his face in his enthusiasm, “Skip!!!” he’s smiling so hard his face looks as if it might split, he puts a party horn in his mouth and blows it with a loud ‘pfffwieee’. “Welcome back!”

Herc is there, in his civilian clothes, smiling and taking his hand, “So nice to have you back, Martin.”

Carolyn is behind him, and she doesn’t reach out but just grins, although her eyes look a little emotional, “Martin, don’t ask me why, but it’s not entirely horrible to have you back in my aeroplane.” 

And Douglas, Martin has been looking forward to this and he knew he’d be nervous, a little, but he can feel his heart hammer as his eyes meet Douglas’. He looks happy, too, does he? Yes, definitely- Douglas smiles, and extends a hand. And then as Martin takes it, a little uncomfortably, is this weird, now, is it? Douglas uses it to pull him in, he wraps his other arm around him and holds him tight for a moment. Martin can feel his stomach tense as Douglas squeezes him, oh that’s so nice. He can smell his cologne.

He’s really here. 

Douglas lets go fast, which is good because Martin’s breathing is all uneven and he’s not sure he can take more without saying something utterly embarrassing like ‘don’t let go’. And then he really looks at Douglas and huh, “You’re wearing your first officer uniform.”

Douglas raises an eyebrow, and looks over to Herc. “I believe we said fifty for each of us?” 

Herc groans. 

Arthur says, wisely, “We did tell you so.” 

Carolyn nods, “You should have listened, Herc.” She explains, “We bet that it would be the first thing you would notice.” 

Martin feels a little ashamed but really, it’s only natural that he’d notice! He’d been thinking about how it might be odd flying under Douglas’ command but that he would do his best to respect it, because Douglas is the captain now, and… Douglas takes out a grey clothes bag, and hands it to him, “Your uniform, supreme commander.” 

Martin zips the bag open and oh, it’s his old MJN uniform, hat and all. “You kept it?” He looks at Carolyn. 

“Naturally.”

“It would be impossible to ever find that much gold braid again,” Douglas says. He grins. “Or someone with the required neck-strength to wear it.” 

“But…” Martin looks at Douglas, still glad that he _can_ now, that he's _right here_. “You’re the captain.”

“Ah,” Douglas says, glancing over at Herc and Carolyn. “I am _Herc’s_ captain, of course.” Herc nods. “But when it comes to _you_ , you will always be my captain, Martin.” 

Martin makes an embarrassing sound in the back of his throat. “Hhhh! I, um, thank… thank you.” He’s blushing again but he can’t help it, Douglas manages to make it sound like an endearment, _his_ captain. He can barely look at him. 

“So now you’re skip again, skip!” Arthur says. Then looks at Douglas, “Or well, you’re skip still, too, skip, but now you’re Douglas, skip, or I mean…”

“Yes, dear.” Carolyn interrupts Arthur before he can think on it too much. “All right, chop chop, Martin, get changed, and then it’s time to go.” 

“We’re not flying passengers?” Martin asks, he’s not even sure where they’re going, Carolyn didn’t tell him, just when to be here. 

“No,” Carolyn says, at the same time Arthur says, “Yes! Herc and Mum are the passengers, Herc convinced Mum to go on their a-year-late honeymoon, now there’s an extra pilot around to fly GERTI.” 

Carolyn rolls her eyes, but Herc beams, “Finally!”

Martin nods, takes his uniform into the cockpit, and changes, still a little… stunned. He can hear their conversations through the door. The melange of Arthur’s excitement, the smooth, low voice of Herc patiently intercutting. Carolyn’s tone, sounding surprisingly happy. Then a remark by Douglas, very close to the door. Martin hurries, hangs the uniform he was wearing over the hanger and steps into his old one. 

It feels familiar, the cheap polyester. 

He smoothes his hair down, and puts his hat on. Douglas is right, it actually is notably heavier than his other hat. And okay, it _is_ quite a lot of gold braid but he always thought he needed it, to look like the captain. And that he deserved it, he was, no, he _is_ , the captain, Martin takes a deep breath, and fights a smile again. He straightens his uniform, and opens the door. 

“Ah, there he is, the set’s complete. Now let’s go, drivers!” Carolyn actually sits down on the first row of seats, next to Herc, and closes her seatbelt. 

Douglas says, “I already did the walk-around, ready for take-off, captain.” 

Martin nods, and sits down in his old captain’s chair. Looks at the controls. Then looks back at Douglas, waits for him to get settled in next to him. It’s been so _long_ since they did this. “Engine check?”

“Engine check complete.” Douglas sounds completely normal, but Martin can’t stop glancing at him, and he gets the feeling it’s sort of mutual. 

“Take-off?”

Douglas uses the comm, “Karl, your permission to leave the surly bonds of earth?”

Karl answers, “Go go GERTI! Bring me something nice!” 

Martin starts the taxi down the runway, aware that he’ll need to adjust his flying significantly from what he’s used to. It’s been a long time since he was in GERTI. Then starts the other engine. 

“Take her lower on the gas than that.” Douglas says it quietly. 

Martin does immediately, lowers it, and GERTI rumbles beneath them, familiar but different. She goes easily, makes speed like it’s nothing, just like Douglas said. Martin looks at the instruments, and then at the exact right moment pulls up. He feels GERTI’s wheels leave the tarmac, the very first dip of flight, and wow, Martin glances at Douglas with an elated expression, that’s always beautiful. “Oh!” 

Douglas smiles back widely, “I know, feel her go!”

They’re climbing through the grey clouds in the mid-afternoon golden light, and the difference is quite stunning. GERTI manoeuvres so much better now, the controls are actually responsive. And it’s different to be in command again, to be the one doing this, the control stick in his hands, it feels so _right_. Martin glances back at Douglas, and sees Douglas’ warm eyes on him. “You missed the old girl?”

“Yes,” Martin says, without a doubt he did. 

And then, as they’re stabilised at cruising speed, 5000 miles to Cancun, Martin gathers his courage, and reaches out his hand. From the corner of his eye he sees Douglas’ eyebrows rise, the small smile when he understands what he wants, then feels the answering touch as Douglas takes it. 

Martin smiles. “I did.”

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
